that untimely hour?”
“He happened to be the only one.”
“Never mind about 'happening,' Mr. Lorry. He was the only passenger who
came on board in the dead of the night?”
“He was.”
“Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any companion?”
“With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are here.”
“They are here. Had you any conversation with the prisoner?”
“Hardly any. The weather was stormy, and the passage long and rough, and I
lay on a sofa, almost from shore to shore.”
“Miss Manette!”
The young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned before, and were now
turned again, stood up where she had sat. Her father rose with her, and kept her
hand drawn through his arm.
“Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner.”
To be confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth and beauty, was far
more trying to the accused than to be confronted with all the crowd. Standing, as
it were, apart with her on the edge of his grave, not all the staring curiosity that
looked on, could, for the moment, nerve him to remain quite still. His hurried
right hand parcelled out the herbs before him into imaginary beds of flowers in a
garden; and his efforts to control and steady his breathing shook the lips from
which the colour rushed to his heart. The buzz of the great flies was loud again.
“Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where?”
“On board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, and on the same
occasion.”
“You are the young lady just now referred to?”
“O! most unhappily, I am!”
The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less musical voice of the
Judge, as he said something fiercely: “Answer the questions put to you, and
make no remark upon them.”
“Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the prisoner on that passage
across the Channel?”